Outside My Classroom Window

Trees in winter Remind me of Reaching hands, Blackbirds rest on hands, They wish them gone And to be free Of loud screeches That pierce the Air. But the hands are Old and stiff, They sway with the wind Waiting for respite, And finding none. They try to tell stories To the birds, flighty, Of summer days Of their youth, Stories of lovers Resting on their trunks And children Hanging in their leaves, Their leaves fluttering gently As their crowning glories Turn. The birds hear not. They tell of unbridled beauty Of fall, The brightly lit colors And comfortable days, Of happiness And the songs of the wind Swirling gently. The birds hear not. They turn And tell their darker tales, The once kind winds blow And away their leaves flutter to the ground Out of reach, Children disappear, Lovers go inside, No one stays for long, They are alone. The birds hear not. They cry And groan And the birds continue Hearing nothing but Themselves. But then the Wind embraces them With the suggestion of warmth, And they sigh, contented, For the birds are gone. The birds fear The warmth And the light Of a new Spring Coming Soon.

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